Tabula Rasa
by Katherine-E-Kora
Summary: The world is a blank slate. Two decades have passed since the biological apocalypse, and a wide-spread pocket of villages and plains have sprung up from the ashes. Civilians are guarded by the Protectorate, a lonely class of hunters who kill in pairs what seeks to destroy them. However, change is coming. New beasts are appearing, and rumors of a Phoenix run rampant on the air...
1. Prologue

TABULA RASA

Katherine-E-Kora

PROLOGUE

An overwhelming and oppressive darkness ripped at the seams of the world. Buzzing, vibrating drones, piloted by men behind toggle-sticks and big red buttons, clotted the noontime sky. Their net was thicker than blood; so thick that it blacked out the sun. For fifteen whole minutes, the land below grew icy cold. Passerby in the streets looked up in terror and saw their own breath, billowing outward in cottony clouds of opaque suspension.

When the end came, not everyone was surprised. The great majority were; those dwelling in the large, ignorant cities and those who pushed away the signs with their upturned noses.

It was a busy day for the Men of Letters.

In a sprawling bunker laid shallowly into the Kansas countryside, the whole universe was alight—alight on electrical boards, alight on an interactive tabletop map, alight in loud reds and greens and oranges, alight in the form of stridently sounding sirens that lined every hallway and wall. Men in suits emblazoned with their initials gripped the edges of chairs wordlessly, nothing but pension in their expressions.

Down the hall and to the right, another man in a different suit clutched his wife's hand as she cried out in pain at the end of her first labor; the first of two, and certainly the most eventful.

Above ground, the first bombs began to drop. The woman clenched her teeth. The bunker rattled and shook; glass fixtures spattered on the floor. A young man, his dark hair wild and disheveled, walked tensely into the room of the man and his pained wife. Hell shone bright in his blue eyes. His hands grasped tightly onto the thin air, forming white-knuckled fists at his sides.

"John," He directed at the man, "Mary, somebody, tell me what to do. Nobody else is listening to me, John. We're almost out of time."

John gripped his wife's hand tighter as another contraction hit her, in sync with the bombs that bombarded the land above. Mary's jaw unlocked and she let out a light-shattering scream. Somewhere deep in the recesses of the bunker, an engine kicked on and the emergency lighting spurred to life, bleary and dim. The man with the hellfire eyes flinched, the hem of his too-long overcoat shifting with the slight motions of the rolling bunker. He braced himself against the doorframe.

"John," He loudly repeated, "We're running out of time!"

The man John spared his onlooker a withering, steely glare.

"I know, Castiel," John roared, "But this is more important to me! Can't you see that? You want to do something? Fine, Castiel, protect Mary!"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, hesitating. Another gaggle of men herded a small group of women and children down the hall behind him, and the supposed leader of this group stopped at the doorway and nodded to John Winchester, who nodded back and, sparing Mary and apologetic and passionate kiss on the forehead, shoved Castiel out of the way and went back to work.

Having no other choice, Castiel braved the uneven ground and pulled up a chair next to Mary's bedside. He robotically replaced the air in his grip with her pallid hands. They were surprisingly weak, and her pulse pumped low and glowering beneath her frigid skin. Between pants, she let her head fall to Castiel's side of her pillow, and fixed him with a dying gaze of her own. Castiel rubbed her hands distractedly.

"Thank you, Cas," Mary breathed, "John can be a little harsh sometimes. He's under a lot of stress right now."

"We all are," Castiel gruffly replied.

Another barrage of contractions hit her, effectively breaking off their conversation into little more than perforated, agonized groans and tears. Castiel lowered his head and let his spirit run through her—through their hands. A soft glow. Mary sighed in relief, collapsing tiredly onto the sweat-stained bedspread. Her breathing evened out.

John returned to the room and the two new parents held him in their arms for the first time. Castiel stood and watched, returning to his place near the door. Most of the alarms around the bunker had calmed down at this point, replaced with a soft, dull crying. Fresh pink mouth open wide, tiny fists lashing out at the air. A wet flop of muddied blonde hair dirtied its skull. Castiel narrowed his eyes.

"Dean," Mary cooed as John helped her sit up and hold the newborn in her arms, "His name is Dean."

John nodded. A glow of youth had sparked in his eyes, bright and eager, at the sight of his first son. A boy, would you imagine it! If only the world were a better place, he would teach this child all about being a proper man, about all the finer things in life. How to fix a car, how to swing a bat, how to please a woman, how to respect the people you loved.

But instead, the glow in his eyes quickly faded. John sighed and turned away from his wife, raising his gaze to Castiel once more in a gesture of torn-up defeat.

He sighed, "Castiel, there'll be another attack in five minutes. And it won't be long before we're discovered here and you'll have to burn out again."

"I realize that," Castiel shot back, "You don't have to remind me."

"But, I need you to promise me something," John earnestly pleaded, "Please, protect my wife and son."

He agreed.


	2. Chapter One

_A/N-shout out to Soulless for the first review. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too. Sorry for all of the exposition stuff though. I promise the dialogue and crap will get less explanatory as the story progresses. I just have to find ways to explain things since there's such a huge time gap, and it seemed like the most straightforward way. Please leave suggestions or criticisms or any happy little messages in the reviews~ I love to hear what you think! Happy reading~ -Katt_

**CHAPTER ONE**

**DEAN WINCHESTER**

**TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER**

He spent his spare time cleaning his two-person motorbike. Every piston, fuel-injector, tire spoke, wheel indent, and imperfection. All of it was deconstructed, wiped down with a hand towel coated judiciously in alcohol, and then put back together again, exactly the same way it had been before. If there was a dent or a scratch he could fix, he kept it. Unless it was new. Only the old ones meant anything to him.

A patch sewn hastily on the right breast of his brown leather jacket read: Protectorate Class Citizen. And, below that, following the lower half of the circle, a number in frayed golden thread. 25. He had been a hunter in the Protectorate class for exactly 25 years, as of yesterday evening.

The sun shined scathingly down on his hunched-over back as he sprawled in the dry-bones dirt and polished the rims of his bike with a clean rag. His distorted reflection gleamed back at him; a weather-beaten, angular, green-eyed beam of a man. All too happy to do nothing at all.

"Dean!" A pleasant, boyish voice echoed through the metal scrapyard, until its owner finally rounded a tower of melted, vogue-art-looking pile of something that had once been something, and came into view. He was a tall, lanky, mop-haired fellow, holding his hand over his subjectively colored eyes to block out the burning sun. Dean looked up from his polishing and waved the rag at his younger brother congenially. The two stood to face each other and Dean punched his taller sibling on the shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted in a rush, "Just got back from town. I think I've got us a job. The locals caught wind of a traveling gang of morphs right outside Carbondale's gates. You up for it?"

Dean threw a cursory glance back at his bike and shrugged in indifference. "Yeah," He agreed, "Just let me finish up first, 'kay, Sammy?" Dean clapped a hand across Sam's shoulder again, already walking back to complete his routine. "Why don't you prepare the bags, then we can head out."

Sam smiled uncomfortably. "I told you not to call me Sammy. It's Sam."

"I know that," Dean shot back jokingly, "I was there when dad and mom named you."

"So, why do you keep calling me that?"

Dean grinned back at his brother, "Because I'm the older the brother and I can do what I want."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Hey, no complaining!" Dean mocked. The two boys parted without another word. Sam disappeared within the gaping door of a small, thrown-together junk-pile of a shack and reappeared a moment later hauling two canvas duffle bags, which he threw into the dust beside his older brother and began to rummage through and organize deftly. Dean threw his brother a glance every now and then, just to make sure the right guns were going into the right bag, but other than that the two were in their own worlds.

Dean Winchester lost himself in the sun-bleached gleam of his motorbike.

**…**

The engine roared as Dean blazed a trail through the grasslands, the short, stocky clumps of noxiously green vegetation whipping every-which-way as the bike parted their ranks at 50-miles-per-hour. Sam perched on the higher-up coach seat sideways, gripping the back of his seat with one hand and a revolver with the other. The moon carved oblique shapes into the landscape in pale, lightening colors. The land was utterly silent, apart from the noise the boys made. Everyone slept at night. But they were too far from civilization at this point for the kinder existence of the people. Rather, they were traveling across the barren, bomb-pocked terrain of No-Man's Land in search of the _not-people_. Because _everything_ did not sleep at night, and it made better hunting by moonlight.

"How much farther?" Dean yelled over the gassy growl of the engine. Sam's gaze swept across their seemingly monotonous environment with care.

He responded plainly, "They were last seen by the Crystal Pools, five miles north of here. About five minutes."

"Which way's north?"

"That way's north!" Sam spat, "Dean, _you know_ your directions!"

"I know," Dean chuckled to himself, inaudible above the roar, "I'm just messin' with ya."

They made the rest of their journey into the wild, untested zones of humanity in a humble silence. Occasionally, Dean would risk lifting his eyes from the dangerous unmarked land in front of his tires and to the stars, which shone brightly in the absence of light pollution. Of course, Dean had never been in an age where this wasn't the case, so this wasn't what he was noticing in their numbers.

Had they dwindled? The stars looked fewer.

Finally, the Crystal Pools loomed into sight and Dean loosed his grip on the clutch, slowing the bike to a jumpy stop. Sam catapulted himself from the back seat before the bike halted completely, rolling on his awkwardly tall legs and onto the ground. Dean laughed and propped the bike up on its stand before joining his younger brother in the grass, crouching beside the nearest pool in mild, open humor.

"Still getting the hang of puberty, I see," He joked.

Sam glowered. "Shut up, Dean."

A full moon beamed from the bottom of the pool in perfect and resolute suspension. The pools were the aged pockets of bombshells, full of rainwater so clear that one might perceive their own future in its depths. Tiny, mysterious fish and pollywogs, the beginning of new generations, fluttered about near the bottom fringes. In the moonlight, the rocky floor of the largest pool was stained a steely grey in hue, varying the deeper the eyes wandered. Dean could see his shadow wavering against the rock. The tiny creatures of the pool cowered in fear at his darkness.

But, other than the lapping of the aquatic life and the two boys and their motorbike, there was nothing else present. The pools were serenely tranquil, and no bounty was in sight. Dean groaned and stood up, stretching his limbs until the bones snapped in satisfaction.

"There's nothin' here, Sammy," He plainly pointed out, "I think this job was a bust."

"Sh," Sam warned. For a moment, Dean remained quiet, listening in on the chorus of nature with a trained ear. When he heard nothing, he started up again, rambling.

"Like I said, let's just—"

"—Shh!" Sam harshly repeated, "Listen."

They both listened. A faint, wild wind blew through the sparse grasses and the scant, dry soil. The overwhelming scent of ozone and nighttime perforated the air, an after-effect of too much radiation in the atmosphere. The squeaking sounds of scurrying creatures, appearing for the darkest hours only to forage for their next meal. Quiet, very quiet, muffled by fabric and distance, came the soft pattering of feet. Aware feet. Careful feet. With something that minded where it placed those feet controlling them.

Dean exchanged a knowing glance with his brother, slowly reaching for the sawed-off shotgun he kept slung over his shoulder. He raised the weapon to the firing position and crouched low in the grass alongside the Crystal Pool.

A call.

"I can smell you there, human!" A nasally, female voice crooned, "Whatcha up to over there with your wee little friend? Lookin' for a pot of gold? Sorry, old yeller, but we already dug it _all _up."

Dean threw Sam a bewildered look. Morphs, as someone had decided long ago to name the countless radioactive deformities that wandered the No-Man's-Land, usually uttered nothing but unintelligible moans. Sam shrugged, equally confused.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" The woman cooed, "Seriously, boys, I know you're there and hiding will get you nowhere. Let's settle this like adults, okay?"

Sam pushed up to his feet first, followed with a little hesitation by his slightly shorter brother. The voice belonged to a squat young lady, her face rounded and childish, her eyes dark and condescending. Ringlets of brown spun from the top of her head and down to her low shoulders. They shifted nearly imperceptibly with the wind. The jeans she wore were tight-fitting and ripped at the knees and lower thighs from wear and travel. She jammed her hands casually in her pockets, as if approaching a business partner instead of two brothers who sought to kill her. Behind her, a small gaggle of obedient-looking men and women stood in stiff formation.

She turned her head to the side in sarcastic amusement. "Someone told you this job would be easy, huh?" She pouted, "You were expecting to be home before dinner. How cute."

"What are you?" Dean demanded, thinking aloud, "Not a morph."

"Hell no," She spat, "The name's Meg Masters. Professional demon. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting on this fine, lovely night?"

"Demon?" Sam repeated, mouth agape, just for clarification. Dean was doubly surprised—he hadn't heard of the demon class since…well, since ever. Demons, vicious roaming spirits welded to the bodies of long-dead humans, were rumored with good establishment to have all been wiped out. The bombs about thirty years back took most of them. Then the protectorate kicked in—kick-started by a mysterious group of men known only as 'The Founders'—and took out the rest because they had been labeled as a threat to society. Yet, here were many. Standing before Dean Winchester in tight formation, apparently led by this fleshy young lady by the name of Meg Masters. He frowned.

"You heard me the first time, tall drink of water," Meg shot back, unimpressed, "Now, your names. Don't be shy—it makes me frisky."

"Well," Dean pulled a forced smile, "In that case—"

"—Dean," Sam interjected, "This is my brother Dean, and my name is Sam."

Dean hissed in angered disappointment, "Sammy! You don't give your name to a monster! You stab 'em in the face!"

Sam widened his eyes and threw up his hands. "Well, we weren't getting anywhere with that."

"He's right," Meg interrupted impatiently, "You aren't." She smiled unexpectedly, a peal of dark laughter bursting from her parted lips. "Ah, _Sam and Dean_, Dean and Sam. I've heard _a lot_ about you two in the past few weeks. Yes, I have." She sighed longingly, "Some people really want you dead. Others really just want you."

"Why do people want us?" Dean questioned skeptically. Meg gave him a knowing look and smiled toothily.

"Deanie-Weanie," She replied suavely with another question, "What's that around your neck?"

Dean glanced down, freeing up one of his hands and letting it naturally find its way around the length of thin leather that hung two charms at his collarbone. A necklace; it had been given to him by his mother, though he couldn't remember that much. He only remembered his father's insistence not to lose either pendant. One was heavy and made of rusted metal. It resembled some sort of tribal face mask. The other was light as air, burned hotter than the hottest day on the plains, and shorted out fuses—what few fuses there were, anyway, most civilians had resorted to lamplight at this point—when he touched the bottom of the vial to them. It was an oblong glass tube, tethered to the leather by a screw jammed into the sealing cork. Filled with silken grains of grey sand that turned red in the sunlight, the second charm was a mystery. Dean didn't know how it worked, but he never cared to know either. He turned his gaze back up and Meg nodded at him curtly. A silent salute.

"That still doesn't answer our question," Sam changed the subject, "Why do you want us?"

"Not the both of you," Meg corrected herself, "Just your brother, Deanie, there. You, they're fine with killing."

"They?"

Meg smiled wider. "Us," She responded slyly, "The demons. It's why we're here again after so long, don't you know. And the cute little boys in white that think they run the joint," Meg paused to roll her eyes contemptuously, "Angels. Or, whatever you may have them."

"Angels?" Dean immediately became interested. Angels. The angels his father had been hunting for twenty-some years. The angels that murdered thousands in the early days of post-war. The same angels that, his dad was convinced, killed his mother.

Angels. A gaggle of different supernatural creatures that, in the aftermath of the bombing, had been super-charged with radioactive energy.

"Dean," Sam muttered, "She's lying. There are no demons or angels. There are fox-hybrids, and bird-hybrids, and…and…_morphs and werewolves_. There are no such thing as _demons and angels_."

Meg gestured to herself, insulted.

"Doesn't matter," Dean insisted gravely, "Sammy, I got to find them."

"We kill her first." Sam darkly shot back, "Then you can start looking for men with wings on your own. I'm not doing this again, Dean. Last time, we lost Jess."

"I know, Sammy, and I said I was sorry."

"She was my bond, Dean."

"I know. I'll go alone," Dean sighed, "But I have to do this. If there's even a chance…it's what dad would want."

At the mention of dad, Sam shook his head and scowled. The two had never been on good terms, Dean reflected. Even after their father disappeared after a tussle with a group of unidentified beasts somewhere north of Founder's City, Sam had seemed nothing but relieved.

"Uh, hello?" Meg interceded once more, getting more and more impatient by the minute, "Demon speaking here. Guys, this whole emotional thing is really touching me in all the wrong places, but I'd really like to skip to the part where I kill you, take the necklace, and walk away. So…"

Dean and Sam lifted their guns again, getting the message loud and clear. These beasts were going down without a fight. Cocking the barrel of his shotgun, Dean raised it level with Meg's' chest. She suppressed an easy, crooked smile.

He had expected more of a fight.

Sam pulled the trigger first, downing two taller men in the back ranks with quick shots to the head. But, they were up again in an instant. Dean let a buck shot fly from his shortened shotgun, but Meg acted as if she couldn't even feel the metal spheres piercing her chest. She ran at Dean, and the two combatants tumbled back into the grass before Sam knocked her off with blow to the back of the head. Then Meg turned on Sam, and the whole thing started over again with him. Dean was about to take her out, only to think twice and decide otherwise. It would only go in circles, that path of action, and Sam was handling himself well.

Instead, Dean turned to a different set of eyes, about his height, and unloaded the shotgun into the man's stomach. He crumpled to the ground and crawled away.

"It's a shame," Dean commented lightly, catching his breath, "You weren't bad looking."

Though the demons couldn't die, Dean found out very quickly that any injuries they sustained still hurt them. They slunk away faster than he could count them off on his fingers, riddled with holes and bleeding from parts that probably shouldn't have bled. Meg, obviously a tad stronger than the rest, was the only one with a strange resistance to injury. She and Sam still rolled in the grasses near the largest Crystal Pool, shrieking at each other through gritted teeth and kicking like warring cats. Dean, taking a good few steps back, sprinted over and kicked Meg from the top of the pileup. Startled, she hurtled into the crystal water, sending up a monsoon of alarmingly clear liquid and tiny creatures, and slowly sank to the bottom. Sam stumbled to find a secure footing, and the two brothers peered uncertainly into the rippling water of the Crystal Pools.

"Well," Dean stated, "I guess we know now that demons can't swim."

"But, she'll get out eventually," Sam added, rushed, reloading his revolver with fresh bullets from a pocket on his jacket and starting back toward their motorbike, "Come on, Dean. We have to go. We're probably gonna have to leave town, too. Find someplace we haven't been in a while. Lay low."

Dean narrowed his eyes speculatively at the limp body at the bottom of the water before shaking his head and swinging his shotgun over his right shoulder. He followed Sam, slowly, to the motorbike and, before anyone or any demon could return to investigate, Sam and Dean were gone.

The only things that remained of them in the natural serenity of the Crystal Pools were their discarded bullet casings, small spots of blood, and a long, reeling scar cut into the thick green grass that smelled of rubber and reeked of the Winchesters.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

**DEAN WINCHESTER**

Any pub in any village of respectable size and population attracted the attention of the Protectorate. In fact, they'd become known as the default meeting place for seeing any member of the small, lonely faction. If one didn't wander within the confines of local pub, one may not ever set eyes upon a Protectorate member. Not once.

On this particular evening, there were two in Carbondale's pub—a thatched, wood-planked and withering building that perpetually reeked of someone else's vomit. Dean Winchester hunched over a small glass of something clear and potent. If he drank it, the beverage would knock him back for quite a while, even with his level of acclimation to moonshine. Just a whiff sent him reeling. Sam bowed awkwardly on a stool next to his brother; the stool was a bit small for someone of his height.

"So, what are we going to do about this whole demon thing?" Sam asked aloud, "I'm thinking we should spread the word, get out to a bunch of barkeeps and tell them to let any member know what's coming. I mean, Dean, this is huge. If the demons are coming back, anything could be out there."

"I know," Dean nodded a solemn agreement, "I know, Sammy."

"So, what?"

"You know what," He scathingly said in a hushed tone, "I have to go out there and find mom's killer, Sam."

Sam shot Dean a withered glance. "Dean," He began, but he didn't finish. Instead, Sam chuckled to himself and shook his head, pressing his lips together in knowing distaste.

Swiveling in his seat, Dean faced his younger brother wholly. Anything to make him understand. Anything.

"Sammy," He explained, "You can't stop me. This is something I have to do. If you don't wanna tag along, fine. But I'm going to find out where those damned feathery asses are and kill every last one of them, you hear me? Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, tired, "Yeah. But you can count me out, Dean."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I'll probably just stay around the junkyard, maybe travel to the next village over by foot. You're going to need the motorcycle, so take it. I'll be fine on my own."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Fiddling with the hem of his glass, he straightened his back and examined the ceiling with careful attention. Warped beams bent where the water and acid rain had leaked through the thatched roof. A lantern hung from a fraying wire directly above, creaking gently.

"You'll be alright?"

Sam nodded. "I'm twenty-two, Dean. I can handle myself. And, when you figure out that this whole revenge thing and finding the angels is all a huge pile of festering crap," He raised a glass of water to his own words, taking a sip before continuing through a swallow, "You know exactly where to find me."

**…**

He left before the sun peeked over the unbroken crest of the horizon. Dean piloted the bike Northeast—after talking around the pub and the interrogating a few stray beasts on the outskirts of town, it had been determined that the last known place Angels had been spotted was just north of Founder's City, the shining capital of civilization herself. By consequence, that was where he headed.

Founder's City lay nearly sixty miles away from Carbondale, about a day's travel by bike, maybe a week's travel by foot. While Dean navigated easily over the rowdy terrain, he straddled his only map—a withered, water-warped, colorless piece of paper that had been reduced to little more than glorified tissue paper over the years—between the handlebars. The land was a swath of faded sea-green, cut through the center by a squiggly white river, The Great Serpent. Black dots in permanent marker signified the pubs. White squares symbolized towns; the more squares, the bigger the town. There were a few along the river, not many farther away from it. Carbondale was a special case, as it was closer to the Crystal Pools than the river. The Block, too, lay a little south of The Serpent.

To the North, the territory had yet to be charted, as Dean and Sam had never been much farther than the outer bounds of The Great Serpent before. Founder's City was as far as he'd ever wandered—on the edge of his map, it just barely broke the edge of The Serpent, a large crescent, cut through by a tiny offshoot of the larger river, with a reservoir directly south and a forest labeled abruptly SHADOWLANDS directly north.

Enraptured by the map, Dean nearly lost his balance on the uneven ground. His bike veered off course before he could correct it, the map tangling around the handlebars. Dean tried his best to refold the map and shove it back into the bag slung off the side of the engine. He bit his hand into the clutch, and the bike shot off like a bullet across the plains.

**…**

The sun had half-set by the time Dean rolled into town at the southern tip of Founder's City. A small motel rented rooms for the price of three rolls of bread, which thankfully Dean could afford, and he rented a first-floor room with a window that faced the plains. He leaned his bike against the wall by the door and emptied his duffle onto one of the twin-sized beds, throwing his jacket on the other. He packed with him three bags of bread, a small silver pistol, one bottle for carrying water, a spare change of clothes, ammunition, a sackful of silver coins, and his shorty shotgun. This was, of course, in addition to his map and his father's old leather journal, emblazoned with an insignia that he didn't know the meaning of.

Dean sighed and organized everything obsessively before throwing it all back in the duffle and reclining on the other bed, his jacket crushed beneath him. He stared absently at the ceiling with his hands under his head and his ankles crossed at the bottom. The formation of lanterns used to light the room were unlit, and rocked gently with the motion of Dean's settling. They reminded him of a different time.

Once, when his father had been present and his brother was no more than a toddler, he had taken Dean and Sam to a large, stretching dining hall in the heart of Founder's City. They'd been invited by the governor for taking care of a particularly bad morph infestation on the western edge of the city. The food had been exquisite, all they could eat, warmed to perfection, dripping in sauces Dean couldn't name the colors to. Still, all dad ever cared about was finding the Angels. And something called a Phoenix. He obsessed over it.

The Phoenix, he said, could bring one person back to life, and one person only. It could torch entire villages, kill entire populations, heal multitudes more. Dad wanted to use the fiery bird to resurrect Mary, their mother. But he'd never found it. He always used to claim that, if that sort of power got into the wrong hands, the rest of humanity would be doomed. Dean never believed a word of it. Chasing the Phoenix was like chasing a myth. It was a story book. Running in circles. And it had destroyed his father. Or, rather, sent him in a crazed journey across the plains from which he still hadn't returned.

Dean wondered briefly if Sam was okay on his own. Then, turning over so that he faced the small door leading to the washroom, he decided suddenly not to worry too much about Sammy. He could take care of himself. They always had.

Dean drifted into an unsettling slumber—he found himself stuck in a dream full of fire and ashes. Ashes rained from the sky and blanketed the ground, and the trees of the forest, and the sky; everything shed ashes. The whole landscape burned with the glow of a thousand embers, as if someone hand-stoked the forest and puffed billows into the sky. Yet, it was only mildly warm. Pleasant, even.

He shot out of bed to the sound of whistles—a curfew carriage. Citizens would be darting into their houses and pulling the curtains shut. For the Protectorate, however, the day was just about to begin. They, along with any other graveyard-shifters, were excused from curfew. Sweating and shot-through with adrenaline, Dean rolled off the mattress, pulled on his leather jacket, grabbed a few coins and the pistol from his duffle, and headed outside. The midnight air was crisp and refreshing, tinted with cold for the coming seasons. Winters were harsh in the plains, and Dean wasn't looking forward to their return. He shivered habitually and jammed his hands in his jean pockets, hunching his shoulders upwards.

Clouds wisped across the eastern front, caressing the moon, casting shadows down to Earth. Founder's City, however, was absolutely alight with the lampstands of humanity—unlike its lesser village counterparts, Founder's City had brick sidewalks and roads, stone houses, outdoor lamps to light the way for nighttime passers-through. All roads revolved around a city circle, set with a constantly-running water fountain that got its water from the nearby river. Dean could hear it running now, but he steered clear of the main-ways. Instead, he dodged behind a horse stable and used the back alleys to reach the local pub. He ducked inside the doorless opening and arrived within a dim brick building. A line of empty barstools marched along the bar, where a middle-aged woman in blonde wiped down the tabletop with a red bandana. The wrinkles on her face told of her potential for laughter, yet the look she wore now read of a completely different story. A girl sat on the liquor mixing table behind her, swinging her legs back and forth. She was the carbon copy of the woman, probably her daughter. At Dean's entry, they both looked up.

Dean held up his hand in a silent wave. The older woman stopped her work and smiled in deep-seated humor.

"Well, howdy there," She greeted loudly, "You're new in town, aren't you? Protectorate?"

Dean nodded and grinned, pulling out a stool near the end of the bar and folding his hands where everyone could see them. "Yes, ma'am," He responded respectably, "All my life. Name's Dean Winchester."

"Ellen," She introduced, already pouring a freshly-cleaned shot glass full of a honey-yellow liquor. She jabbed a thumb at the girl behind her, still swinging her legs and throwing superior-looking glances around the room, "And that's my daughter, Jo. So, what brings you here, Dean?"

He took a swig from the golden glass Ellen passed him, grimacing and coughing, before responding hoarsely, "I was on a routine hunt down in Carbondale when I got wind of something strange. So, here I am."

"Something strange, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Ellen dared.

"Angels," Dean spat admittance, "I've caught wind of…angels."

Ellen glanced up at him incredulously. "And who in Founder's name told you that?"

"Demons."

"Demons?" Ellen skeptically repeated, "You gotta be kiddin' me, son."

"Demons," Dean sighed wearily in affirmation, "I wouldn't have believed it myself—my brother even tried to talk me out of it, and he was there—but I pumped those sons of bitches full of silver buckshots and they didn't even flinch. We were near the Crystal Pools hunting morphs when they attacked. Their leader—I think she said her name was Meg—wouldn't shut up about angels and this hunt they were on…something big." Tactfully, Dean left out the part about his necklace and the fact that the demons were actually looking for him. Who knew what sort of bad attention that would draw. "Good thing, though, the demons sink like lead."

Ellen nodded, taking up her bandana again and dragging it in lazy circles around the counter.

"I'll spread the word," She gravely mumbled.

Dean drank to that. With every sip, the honey-rich liquid became more and more tolerable. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Ellen retired to the storage room out back for a while, and Jo moved up to replace her at the bar, smirking in blatant teenage bliss. Dean downed two more glasses of liquor and rose out of them in a buzz; he paid Jo in three silver coins and she pocketed them immediately, a grimaced slipping onto the carelessness on her smooth features. Her blonde waves touched the counter when she leaned in closer, he back arching in an attractive curve.

"Dean," She muttered lowly, "Dean, right?"

"Yeah," He swallowed tightly.

Jo leaned in ever closer, whispering now, "My mom won't tell you this, but, there's been some activity around the Shadowlands up north.. An influx of beasts. Influx of protectorate." She paused contemplatively, then pushed the issue further, "I know this place…I've been scouting it out lately with some friends. A lot of weird stuff is goin' on down there."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What kind of place? And, aren't you just a civilian? What are you doing beyond the city?"

Jo snorted, "I'm going to be in the protectorate someday. And, it's just for fun. I'll show you the cave tomorrow afternoon if you take me with you."

Sparing her a sarcastic grin, Dean pushed out of his seat and nodded jerkily. "Of course," He blandly stated, "I'd loved to babysit you. Then, we can all head back here when we're done, and you can watch your mother gank me by the dirt dishes. No, I don't think so, Jo. I'll find it on my own."

Jo looked cross. "You'll never find it," She argued, "Not without me! I can help you! I'll stay out of the way, promise."

"I'll try my luck," Dean backed slowly out of the door, waving a single goodbye on his way out, "Thanks for the drinks."

New friends and tasteless binging aside, Dean felt infinitely glad that he'd woken up and stopped at that pub. If nothing else, he now had the direction he'd previously lacked. In the morning, Dean would leave the inn and comb through the forests in the north. But, not until then.

For now, he busied himself enjoying the quiet splendors of the sleeping city. Dean headed back to his room using the main roads he neglected before. Wooden doors creaked and curtains fluttered as he passed. The whole city had a slightly unsettling, yet calming feel to it. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Dean knew that he didn't belong here, but he couldn't help but think of the 'ifs'. If things had been different, he and his father and mother and Sammy might have lived here. In a little brick house with a fireplace and a dining room table. And on nights like this, they would gather around and eat dinner together. Warm bread and maybe a meat, if they were lucky.

Still, something was missing. He stopped in front of an overgrown, circular stone fountain and sighed, relaxing with the push and pull of the reflections in the water. Reflections of the stars, which still looked fewer. Dean suddenly coughed in rough discomfort. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but things were starting to spin.

His hand cramped up at his side. Dean turned away from the fountain and shook it out tentatively, but the ache increased. Shot up his arm and through his chest. He backed against the fountain and took a seat on the pavement. This had never happened before.

His chest burned. He craned his neck upward as if heaven might hold the answer, but no such revelation came to him. Instead, the pain vanished from his arm and concentrated in his chest. A single point, a thin line. Tolerable.

Dean glanced down at the point, expecting to find nothing, but instead discovering the little vial of ashes around his neck. He held it up uncertainly, narrowing his eyes.

The ashes were humming.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean pushed himself back onto uncoordinated legs and stumbled out of the square. Whatever Ellen had shoved down his gullet at the pub, it must have been really something. He had no time to retrace his way back to the inn using alleyways. He stumbled and sprinted down main streets, following crooked signposts and his naturally sharp instincts. Ten minutes later, he crashed through the door to his room and collapsed to the dirt floor.

_Can you hear me?_

An unfamiliar voice drummed loudly in his ears, thrumming at the base of his neck where the vial of ashes burned fiery hot. They glowed unevenly, pulsating. The room shook, too. Shook and spun and revolved as if the spin and tilt of the Earth suddenly decided to reveal itself all at once.

Then…

Nothing.

Pure blackness.

An overwhelming and oppressive darkness ripped at the seams of the world.

**…**

Dean woke in a fervor, uncertain of the time or place in which he had come to rest. The walls of the Inn stretched unusually high, its stone roof cast strange, mid-morning shadows over the fixtures. He sat up and pulled himself onto the bed, running a hand experimentally through his hair. What a weird night. He couldn't remember ever coming home from the bar; he couldn't remember anything but his conversation with Jo and Ellen. Whatever he'd drank at the pub must have been strong. He could still taste it on his breath.

Letting go of a tired groan, Dean pulled himself up to his feet and prepared for the day. A new pair of jeans, a new shirt, same jacket. He checked the clip of his pistol, but all the rounds were still there where he'd left them. The bag of silver remained in his pocket. He retrieved his map, shoved everything back into his green duffle, strapped it onto his bike, and rolled his belongings into the sunlight. The day was warm and eager, and he was eager to get into it. First things first, he had to hide his bike so it wouldn't get stolen. After a few minutes of lugging it through back alleys and bartering with Ellen, Dean stowed it safely in her storage room, presided over by a wild-looking man by the name of Ash, and was on his way.

A few protectorates had stopped at the bar sometime between Dean's leaving last night and his arrival in the morning, so he decided it best to start there. After all, the people who hunted the beasts would probably be the best people to ask when looking for them. He entered the dim premises and placed himself around a mucky green pull table with a muddle of other people, all wearing badges like his. Dean tried to ignore the dirty looks Jo threw him as he passed—she burned holes into his back with her eyes.

A scruffy, stocky man in a baseball cap was the first to greet Dean—it occurred to him then that they'd met before, working a case with his father.

"Bobby?" Dean grinned from ear-to-ear, pleased with the company, "Nice to see you, man. It's been a while."

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Bobby tipped his cap slightly and laughed to himself.

"Well, if it isn't Dean Winchester," He chuckled, "I've missed you, kid. Your father stopped visiting a while ago, and it's gotten a little lonely around the house."

"You still living in that old shack on the plains?"

Bobby shrugged noncommittally. "More or less. Protectorate bonds pass through every now and then, and I pick up an odd job or two. It's pretty peaceful."

"Ah, well," Dean said, "You never did like the city. So, what brings you here?"

Bobby widened his eyes in mild disbelief, and both men turned back to the rough game of pool that slowly erupted around the moldy table. A woman in a black jacket faced off with a different woman in a slightly less promiscuous outfit; bending over the cue ball politely, the first woman started the game with a triple-scoring serve. Bobby yelled encouragement before responding, "Pamela, don't heckle the woman!" He turned back to Dean with frustration glowing softly in his eyes. "Well, boy, I could ask you the same thing. But, if you must know, I'm working a case with a couple of friends. Specials that lost their hunters, hunters that lost their specials. I don't know what's going on, really. All I know is that somebody's been abducting certain halves of bonds, and all trails lead here."

Dean shifted on his crooked knees speculatively, narrowing his eyes in thought. A bond was a hard thing to break—most protectorates traveled in bonds. It was the classic way of doing things. When a hunter—that is, a human who hunted beasts—ran in with a special—or a supernatural-turned-good, who also hunted beasts—and they were both protectorates and could work together easily, they usually formed a bond. Most bonds were magically created. Any old hag in a spell shop could manufacture one. But they were tricky when it came to breaking. If one side of the bond died, it sometimes took years for the other side to recover. They usually died together. It was considered a mercy thing. Dean had never been in a bond, as he preferred to work alone, but he knew from his brother's experience that it wasn't exactly pleasant.

He muttered, half to himself, "I wonder if we're after the same thing."

"What would that be?" Bobby inquired. Dean kept his voice down when replying, checking to make sure that no one else was listening.

"A demon told me that the angels were back, and they're looking for something. All of 'em are."

Instead of questioning the validity of angels or demons, Bobby turned pensively and bit the inside of his cheek.

"That can't be good."

"No," Dean muttered, "I heard they were in the Shadowlands, but…_hell_, I don't even know if they're real. Angels, I mean."

"Oh, they're real," Bobby confided earnestly, "New to the world, but real. You don't know half the things that are real."

"How do you figure?"

"Boy, you keep forgettin' how _young_ this world is. I was here _before_ it was just grass and dust; I think I know a thing or two. And your daddy was one of the founders—I'm disappointed that he didn't teach you more."

"You and me both," Dean sighed. Jo brushed his shoulder as she passed by with a tray of shot glasses, setting them pointedly down in the center of the pool table in the middle of the game. The woman named Pamela launched the six-ball straight into the arrangement, and the whole thing clattered over. There was a collective groan from the bystanders; Jo broke out into an argument with another man, and dean decided that it was well past his time to leave. He nodded at Bobby, shooting him an exasperated glance.

"Well," He beamed understatedly, "You keep in touch, Bobby. I'll be in town a few more days, I think. So, we'll have to see if we can get together again when this is all over and exchange stories."

"Definitely," Bobby agreed, "You be safe, Dean."

"Of course."

**…**

Dean wandered around the crescent-shaped city for hours on end, asking in nearly every friendly shop he could find. When pressed about the topic of a cave in the forest, most older shopkeepers threw him out or demanded that he leave. Others shut down and refused to talk. The younger people responded with rumors and myths, eager to spread more stories. One boy, only ten years old, conveyed to Dean in ecstatic tones that there were ghosts haunting the caves in the Shadowlands. Another girl, two years older, scoffed at that and claimed it wasn't ghosts, but the tortured spirit of the phoenix itself. Then they skipped off to complete the remainder of their afternoon chores and Dean sat beside the fountain in the city square, no closer to any answers than he had been that morning.

Fifteen minutes or so later after his encounter with the rambunctious children, a familiar face came up and joined Dean on the stone cusp of the water. She perched on the barrier gingerly, a smile teasing on her lips, watching the statues on their ascending levels as they spat out fresh-smelling creek water.

"Dean, right?" The woman purred, "Bobby told me about you at the pub. Name's Pamela."

Dean nodded. He remembered. "I know. Bobby said something about you, too."

"So, what brings you to Founder's City?"

"Ah," Dean gruffly said, "I've been looking around for these caves the barkeeper's daughter told me about. But, no juice. You?"

Pamela shrugged; the tight half-jacket she wore ruffled in protest. "I actually live here," She responded, "I own a supply shop for you crazy protectorate bastards about ten minutes down Campbell Street. Business is always booming, at least."

"I bet."

Pamela dusted herself off and, dipping her hands in the undulating water briefly, flicked Dean with pungent drops. The sun caught each molecule neatly, turning them to liquid fire. They quickly cooled on the side of Dean's face—another sign of the coming season.

"Well," She sighed, "I better get going. My break's almost up and I'm sure some idiot is waiting outside my doors already. Catch you around, Dean. Stop by if you need ammo, charms, a séance…" Pamela ran her damp left hand roughly over Dean's cheekbone, throwing him a wink. Slightly discomforted, Dean inched away and shot her a confident smile. Sometimes, civilians creeped him out. Even if they were in on the gig, like Pamela was.

"…Maybe, a _temporary bond_," She smirked, her teeth painfully white. Dean swallowed a sarcastic reply.

"We'll have to see about that. Bye, Pamela."

"Bye-bye, _Dean_!"

Pamela sauntered down a main road, still walking with flirt in every step. Dean watched her go. Not out of interest. Of course, not out of interest.

Sighing, Dean stood up and circled around the fountain once or twice. When he figured there was really no point in staying, he headed back to the pub. Oh, well. He had tried. And, despite every fiber in his body warning against it, and every ounce of pride telling him not to, it looked as if he was going to have to ask Jo for help anyway.

On the way in the pub, Dean collided with a young, gangly man with more hair on his head than there was muscle in his body. He had a crooked, arching nose; it contrasted his undaunting demeanor. Once, that nose had been broken in a fight.

"Oh, sorry, friend!" The man clapped both hands around Dean's shoulder and sidled around him, rushing the exit, "I gotta go throw up!"

Dean threw the man a quizzical look. Was he protectorate, or just a confused, drunken, sad little civilian who'd seen one two many bar fights and way too many drinks?

One thing was for sure—Dean wanted to get out of this city and back to Sam as fast as he possibly could.


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: Thanks to I'mNotCleverLol for the review! I hope you like this chapter too~ Thanks to all for reading and putting up with me haha...sigh. Such long expositions. Oh, well. We'll get to the good part eventually..._

**CHAPTER THREE**

**SAM WINCHESTER**

Sam winced tiredly in the lonely four-person dining booth at Carbondale's local protectorate pub. Only a few staggered drunks were present, and none of them were even part of the protectorate. Rather, they appeared to be bedraggled coal miners from further south. They probably lived in the slum near their workplace, harboring a loving wife and two-point-five children. Maybe one of them had a dog. Sam had always wanted a dog. But, they were expensive, and he didn't have time to care for anything like that on the road.

He sighed and spun his glass of water around in circles on the rugged wood tabletop. It left behind a thin residue of darker spotting; condensation from the bottom of the glass. Sam was never one for drinking, especially not alcohol, and today he didn't really feel like drinking anything at all. The glass cast a clear shadow over the two sets of silverware on either side of the table, wrapped in dingy red napkins and tied with a leather strap. Sam hadn't even ordered food.

"Hey," A taught female voice greeted, very business-like and brisk, yet full of honey and dripping with attitude. Sam glanced up from the table and met the shadow-brown eyes of a shorter, tan woman. Her outfit was form-fitting and warm; her hair was a tangled wisp of black. She had distractingly large pink lips. "What are you so glum about, guy?"

Sam laughed half-heartedly and looked away, staring once more into the glass of water in his hand. Maybe it held the answers he so desperately wanted. "Nothing," He responded to the stranger, "Nothing at all. Just family issues."

The woman slid into the seat across from Sam and placed her hands on the table in one quick movement, leaning slightly forward with trained care. She didn't frown, but she didn't smile either. It made her all the more menacing.

"You can tell me," She insisted, "I have no one to tell."

Sam glanced at her in slight humor. She tipped her head.

"Name's Ruby," She introduced.

"Sam," He spit out through gritted teeth, "Sam Winchester."

Ruby's overlarge lips pricked upward in amusement. She grabbed the fork from her silverware arrangement and spun in between her forefinger and the wooden tabletop, still grinning, laughing even. She gave Sam a devilish glance.

"Sammy," Ruby chuckled, "Little Sammy Winchester."

Sam looked up, shadows flitting in his eyes. In the strange lighting of the pub, they appeared brown. But they could be green too, like his brother's, in a different scene. Or sometimes slightly blue. They were subjective—it all depended on the way you looked at them.

"How'd you know my last name?"

"Word spreads fast on the plains," She said simply, "You just have to know who to ask."

Glancing around, Sam leaned in closer. The pub was quiet and he'd have to do the same.

"What are you?" He breathed, barely a whisper, "You're a beast, aren't you? Werewolf, hybrid, vampire…something else?"

Ruby stopped spinning her fork. She glanced up at Sam's pressing expression in a brief lull, thinking to herself, playing with her own expression in obsessive gestures of perfection. Sam reared back, gripping the edge of his side of the table with both hands.

"Sam, don't you know a demon when you see one?"

When Ruby lunged at him, knocking them both to the ground, she brought the table too. The booth toppled completely over, quickly shoved to the side in the clamor. Ruby's hair caught in Sam's mouth and he spat it out, only to reveal the silvery metal surface of the fork's prongs pushing dangerously close to his eye. He ignored the astonished screams of the other pub patrons and grabbed Ruby's wrist, swinging her arm around, knocking her in the gut with his knee. She gasped smally, but went right back at it. The fight was equally balanced. Sam's strength matched Ruby's dexterity to a T, and no one could get the upper hand on the other for quite a while. Ruby kept jabbing at Sam with the fork, switching hands to throw him off, and Sam kept throwing precisely-aimed kicks and punches. He had her pinned down at one point, but she threw him off with a twist of her legs and they began an awkward crawl along the floor. Sam slid backwards, grabbing the foot of a stray chair and throwing it at Ruby, who rolled out of the way and managed to get a hold of Sam's ankle. Grunting, she pulled herself up and stuck her only handhold with the fork. The utensil embedded up to its base. Sam clenched his teeth in pain.

Ruby clambered on top of Sam again, smashing her fist into his jaw before he could react. A table behind him clattered noisily, sending a glass crashing to the floor. Ruby took one of the shards in her practiced hand, raising it into the air. Sam covered his face, but the blow never came. Apparently, somewhere between the initial quarrelling and the chair being thrown, the barkeeper had grown tired of the destruction and grabbed a shotgun from behind the bar, which he promptly used to blow Ruby's shoulders out. The blast rattled Sam's bones. Ruby fell limp on top of him, and the glass shard rolled to the side. He pushed her corpse away and, gasping, took the offered hand of the barkeeper and tried to regain his breath.

"Thanks," Sam windedly gasped to his rescuer, "You saved my ass back there."

"No problem," The barkeeper spat, running a hand through his thick beard and slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, "She was scarin' away business, anyway. You protectorate draggin' your work home with you now?"

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "I guess so."

"Well," The barkeeper pointedly glanced around his pub, disapproval shining in his light grey eyes. The place was a mess—booth toppled over, glasses shattered, chairs probably broken. "Try to keep it clean next time, okay, kid?"

"Sure thing," Sam panted. He leaned over, coughing, pressing his fists against his buckled knees. In his left ankle, the fork stuck out like an extra appendage. Below his feet, Ruby's dark blood curled over the dirt floor. Sam grimaced at both. The fork hurt like hell, but could easily be removed and patched up. Ruby, on the other hand, would take much more work. He knew that she'd wake up eventually, even with a blow like that. He'd have to take her somewhere safe and tie her up—maybe the shed behind the junkyard. Except, that was miles away, and Dean had taken the bike with him to Founder's City. Sam sighed in exhaustion.

He wished Dean were here.

**…**

An hour and some stitches later—sloppy stitches, because they had been sewn in the back of a moving horse and carriage—Sam's injuries had been tended to and Ruby had been safely deposited in the middle of the plains. If she came back—when she came back—Sam could handle her. He limped back to the junkyard after tipping the man who steered the carriage and collapsed in the tiny shack that Dean and him had built the summer prior. Their dad had helped with the roof, but that was all. Everything else, the hanging bunks, the shifty table, the three raggedy chairs, had been lovingly crafted by Sam and Dean. He grabbed a knife from one of the bunks and slid it into his jacket. Then, Sam lilted into the chair marked with his initials and pulled forth a heavy, leather-bound book engraved with the same symbol on his jacket patch. The symbol of the protectorate. And, also, his dad had mentioned once, the symbol of an underground, monster-hunting organization called the Men of Letters. But that was long ago, years before Sam was born.

Sam flipped open the front cover and leafed through the table of contents. A small, burning, oil lamp flickered dully overhead, providing meager light to read by. The bestiary listed the known monsters alphabetically. D…D…D…D for djinn, D for dogs, D for devas, D for…there it was. D for demon. Written in the screwy hand of his awful excuse for a father. Sam flipped to the designated page and followed the text with his fingers. Pictograms lined the paper. Weakening sigils, the annotations read, used in the old world to capture demons. However, since new world demons and old world demons weren't the same monster, the sigils didn't have the same effect.

Sam read through the entire article in under five minutes, then he spent the extra time to read it over again, just to be sure of the details. There was a can of black paint used to touch-up Dean's motorcycle out back, so Sam went around and brought that inside, bolting the door shut with the hardly usable handmade metal lock, and began to draw symbols on the walls. He had to glance back at the bestiary every now and then, making sure he painted each stroke exactly how it was pictured, but he was pretty confident in his handiwork. It took him only fifteen minutes to draw everything. When he finished, Sam stood back and admired his new, dripping wall of warding symbols. The black paint gleamed in the faint moonlight that filtered through the holes in the roof.

"I think that's good," Sam said aloud to himself.

"I think you did a knock-up job," A female voice answered him from outside. Sam startled grabbing the knife from his pocket. The voice scoffed. It was Ruby's voice. "As if that would stop me. I'm out here." A portion of her face appeared between two slats of sheet metal that made up the north wall. It twisted in an ungainly grin. "Hey there, big boy. Think you could let me in, or am I gonna have to do the honors myself?"

"What are you doing here? I thought I put you in the middle of the plains—there's no way you could travel that fast."

Ruby verbally rolled her eyes. "You underestimate me. I'm afraid we got off on the wrong foot, Sam."

"Really?" Sam smirked, though he didn't feel very humored at all. The stitches in his ankle still stung from his fork-inflicted wound. "You tried to gouge my eyes out with a rusty fork."

"I know," Ruby apologetically said, "And I'm sorry, okay. But I had my orders, and not everyone in that restaurant was there for the drinks, got it? I'm here to make you a deal, if you would kindly unlock the door."

"What kind of deal?"

"Let me in and I'll tell you."

"What," Sam scoffed, lowering the knife slightly, stepping forward, but still keeping his guard up, "You can travel an hour's distance in thirty minutes, but you can't snap off a piece of rebar and an old door hinge?"

"I was trying to be courteous," Ruby sharply spat, "But if you insist, Sam, I'll break down your door."

"Fine, hold on," Sam agreed grudgingly, "Let me unlock the door."

"Thank you."

"I wish I could say no problem."

He opened the creaking wooden door for her and she strode in, taking a quick look about her surroundings with piqued interest.

"I like what you've done with the place," Ruby commented, gesturing to the pungent paint slathered across the multicolored walls, "Your artwork is cute, Sam, but it's wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yeah," Ruby pointedly insisted, "Wrong. You have to seal those symbols with demon blood to have the same effect. Like…" She spread open one of her hands, palm-side up, and dragged it along one of the sharper metal edges lining the wall. Blood leaked around the point. Ruby pressed her hand to one of the black paintings and doubled over, groaning, "Like this…"

Sam raised an eyebrow, confused as to why this woman—who had stabbed him not two hours ago—was helping him ward off her own kind. She returned his skepticism with a sly grin, chuckling to herself and wiping her now bloodied palm on the leg of her jeans.

"Why are you doing this?" Sam chanced.

"Because I've got a big heart," Ruby deadpanned, rolling her eyes, "What do you think, Sammy? I do things because it benefits me. I thought that cooperating with Lilith and Azazel was beneficial. But, it's not. So, here I am."

"Lilith?" Sam questioned, "Azazel? Who the hell are they?"

"The leaders of this little lemonade stand," Ruby explained. She walked around to Sam's table, dragged her fingers through pages of the bestiary, tapped a few sentences, made a face. "They think they're big stuff, you know. I don't really like it. And don't even get me started on Michael. If anyone's cocky around here, it's him."

"Michael?"

Ruby shot Sam a withering look. "Coach of the other team," She said, "You know, big bad boys with wings? Juiced-up bird-hybrids?"

"Angels?"

"If you wanna call them that, sure. But they're hardly angels."

Sam blew a gusty breath between his teeth, falling backwards into his brother's chair. He pulled his hair out of his face and stared up at the ceiling. The night sky filtered palely through, tinted pink with the coming dawn. Stars were winking out in the wispy clouds.

He muttered, "So, it's true. They're all back, and my dad wasn't crazy…" Sam shot up out of his seat, eyes fluttering wide open with sudden realization. "My dad wasn't crazy. And if he wasn't crazy…"

"Keep goin', Sam, you're getting closer…" Ruby warned warmly.

"If my dad wasn't crazy," Sam concluded, "Then there's only one thing that they could be looking for."

"Bingo," Ruby murmured.

"The phoenix," They both said in unison.

Sam started up again, grabbing a duffle off the hook on his way out of the shack. Ruby followed closely after, uninvited, uncaring.

"I've got to warn Dean."

**…**

By two o'clock, Ruby and Sam were halfway to the halfway mark, fifteen miles outside of Carbondale, just east of the Crystal Pools. Taking the journey on foot tore at the flimsy soles of their shoes, burned the bottoms of their feet. Trekking up and down the rolling hills quickly wore down their stamina. The sun glared through the thinned layers of the atmosphere with intensity, burning into the back of Sam's leather jacket.

"Don't you have a carriage?" Ruby panted, "A horse? Anything?"

Sam sighed, "We have a bike, but Dean took it with him when he left for Founder's City. I didn't think I'd have to follow."

"No, you just didn't think."

He chuckled darkly, "Maybe."

"Hey, Sam," Ruby mentioned casually, vaulting over a thick steel rod embedded in the slope of a particularly large crest. She patted its rusty surface in appreciation and ran up beside her traveling partner, still trying to find her running legs. And, for that matter, her running lungs. "We should pair up in the next city. You and I, we'd make a great team."

"You mean, like," Sam scoffed, "Like a bond? What makes you say that? You tried to kill me last night, Ruby."

"I know."

"And?"

"And, I said I was sorry," She shrugged, "It's the truth, Sam. You and I, we weren't made to be alone. We'd work better together. You're a hunter, I'm a special, together we're a bond. It's simple."

"Last time I had a bond, it didn't turn out too well," Sam muttered sadly.

"You mean Jess?" Ruby asked him. But, she didn't wait for any answer before rattling off, "Sam, I know all about her. And, honestly, what were you _thinking_? A bond with two _hunters_? Two specials I can understand, but two hunters is _never_ a good idea, and it _never_ ends well."

"Shut up, Ruby," Sam growled.

Despite the fact that Sam constantly told his brother that he didn't care anymore, and he honestly tried not to care, Sam cared immensely about Jess's death. It was unnecessary; the entire event had been branded into his memory, hot as fire. Hot as _the fire_.

They'd been conducting what he thought was a routine summoning spell, just north of The Block. Jess and Sam stood together on one side of the table and Dean stood with their father on the other. And then their dad added something strange to the mix. The whole inn went up in flames, and Jess went with it. Sam and Dean escaped with little more than burns and scratches. They hadn't seen their father since. Sam wasn't sure which made him madder—that Jess had paid for his father's obsessiveness with her life, or that his dad hadn't stuck around to take the blame. He didn't even apologize.

More than a year had passed since that day, and Sam still couldn't let it go.

By late afternoon, the sun had sunk halfway into the horizon, and the plains had cooled substantially. A harsh wind blew through the unprotected grasses. Sam and Ruby covered their faces with their arms to buffer its impact. Carbondale vanished from the low skyline behind them. Far, far ahead, Founder's City and its river-water reservoir reared into view. The moon waxed in a fattened crescent; plump for the slaughter. They'd arrive at the city line by midnight, at the latest.

"We're getting close," Ruby rubbed her hands together, both for warmth and anticipation, "I can't wait to check in to a nice inn and just kick back my feet and—ugh—just take off my shoes. I never thought I would say that."

"What, you never walk anywhere?" Sam snorted.

"We usually hijack merchant caravans," Ruby sighed, "Or, we take lots of breaks."

"Well, I guess that makes sense."

"Are you calling me lazy?"

"Maybe a little."

"I can still kick your sorry ass."

"I know you can."

Sam halted in his tracks. Ruby paused at his left elbow, peering ahead with her eyes ablaze. They stood atop the crest of a large hill, the wind in their faces, the line of the moon-shaped city tentative and shadow-covered at their feet. Beyond that lay the forest, in all its ugly glory.

The forest glowed. It smoked, reflected as wisps and tendrils and bursts of flashing blue in the eyes of two onlookers, standing miles away on top of a hill.

"I've seen bigger," Ruby commented lightly.

Sam just shook his head. The Shadowlands were on fire—a hot, airy blue inferno that lit the outer bulge of the city in a halo of holy light.

Then, there was nothing.

Sam felt the blast before he saw or heard it. The force knocked him back a good ten feet, slamming into his chest with the force of a rampant horse. His eardrums hammered in his head, threatening to burst his skull wide open. Suddenly, Ruby didn't matter. It didn't where she was, or where Jess was, or dad or Dean.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the high-pitched scream of the explosion and a bright blue light.


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**DEAN WINCHESTER**

The forest on the outskirts of town was borderline hell—a crossbreed between storybook swampland and infinite void. Somewhere in its deepest recesses, a small offshoot of The Great Serpent slithered through the tightly-knit trees, gurgling in repetition. Wild bird calls ricocheted out of the canopy. Weeds and ivy crawled from the undergrowth; war-weary stragglers, all.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. Disbelief at himself, mostly. Jo scoffed, setting her hands on her hips.

"I can't believe this," He muttered under his breath. He adjusted his grip on his silver pistol, the only weapon he dared bring with him into the darkness. This was it. This was the day he'd find exactly what he was looking for, or else put his doubt to rest forever.

He could feel it in his bones.

"Alright," His smaller guide introduced him to the length of the woods with a wave of her hand, "Are we ready to rumble, or what? We just gonna stand here and admire the scenery all day?"

"Let's go," Dean grimaced, "I want to get this over with."

Jo stepped forward first and the party of two pushed into the beckoning deep.

The foliage and leaf litter crunched underfoot. Progress meant braving inch-long thorns and hacking away at steel-strong tendrils of ivy. Dean moved with uncertainty, like running into a snow storm blind. Hands held aloft in front of his face, feet testing for any signs of traps. The sound of water drew nearer, and Dean side-stepped a particularly green piece of flora, following Jo's much more practiced lead, to arrive in a mildly open clearing. The canopy above knit together so tight that still no sunlight was visible.

Full of…nothing.

Dean whipped around in confusion. This was the first clearing he had come to, so it wasn't as if he'd expected anything grand. But, he still expected something grander than nothing at all.

Overhead, a colorful bird peeped in alarm and vanished into the near night. Dean startled and turned to its cry. Too little, too late. The bird was gone.

"Nice company," He commented drily, "Is this it?"

"No," Jo shot back, "The next clearing over is where we're headed, moron. Do I look stupid to you?"

It was a welcome to the neighborhood, he supposed.

It was also unsettling, to be in the deep-woods alone. So Dean pushed ever onward, abandoning Jo's disgruntled lead, through the tangled brush, until he came to a halt about halfway through the clearing. Had the grass just creaked? No, that was impossible. An after effect of his strange, alcohol-induced stupor last night. Dean continued on his path.

"Hey!" Jo objected, "Wait for me! You don't even know where you're going, Dean!"

Three steps later, he was tumbling through the thin wooden ceiling of an underground room. The floor was hard and tiled in neat porcelain, with a thin coat of water that trickled at a downwards slope into oblivion. He knew this only because it was the first thing his face met when he landed. Sputtering from the impact, Dean shoved to his feet and spat out a mouthful of dirt water. Gritty residue remained on his tongue. It tasted like putrid fish; putrid dead fish. Dean grimaced in distaste. He'd always hated fish.

A voice screamed down the hole he'd made in the roof, and Jo's face appeared in the ceiling. Dean rolled over and flicked the water off of his shoulders in disgust.

"Are you alright?" She asked, angry and worried all at once, "I told you to wait! The caves are all over the place, and the ground's super unstable!"

"I didn't know that," Dean spat.

"It's because you don't think enough. Hold on, I'm climbing down to meet you. I usually don't make a habit of jumping down strange-ass holes in the ground, but I'll make an exception this time, 'kay?"

"Alright," Dean muttered, "Just be careful."

Regaining his steady composure, Dean glanced quickly about the room. It was a dilapidated and ruined room, with tiles and mismatched metals strewn all about, vines growing into walls, tables overturned and chairs busted across the slightly intoxicated floor. Two open doors led to walls of rooty mud. Another wide, crooked hallway arced down. A flood of water gushed into its precipices. Muddy, inky water. Dean leveled his pistol at eye-level and craned forward, glancing down the evil-looking hall. There came a splash behind him as Jo dropped down a few feet away, sending water flying. Dean startled, realized his error, and turned back to the cave.

Darkness and steam, ringed with blazes of numb light and sterile buzzing. He hated caves—going underground made him noxious as all hell. Dean remembered distinctly, when he was younger, his father dragged him along on an underground hunt and the ceiling collapsed in on them. Warily, Dean turned to the ceiling, sucking in a few breaths of air through his mouth. Jo glanced at him skeptically. He doubted this cave was like other caves. It looked civilized, had structure other than rock or dirt holding it up. Besides, this was where all the signs were pointing for open-season on angels.

Still, he clutched the edge of the opening to the steep hallway and hesitated. In or out? Up or down? He felt a nervous tremor go through his hand. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it now. What if he went back to the city before exploring any further?

The decision was made for him only a moment later. From the opening in the ceiling, through a small stream of water, the voices of many fluttered to him. The cry of a bird. Jo glanced up, bewildered, and motioned for Dean to 'get his ass down the pipe'. Dean shook his head and, cursing to himself, ducked inside the sloped hall. He lost his footing right away and careened into a sideways table. Jo followed more gracefully, taking each step sideways with precision. Careful not to make a sound, Dean shuffled to the outer wall and made his way down slowly, taking each handhold in stride, using queues from Jo, who had stepped alongside him now. Multiple rooms lined the hall, making things a little harder, but they managed well enough. One room held what looked like an old hospital stretcher. Another, a few chairs and a bed. A large letter 'C' had been carved into the busted door. Dean utilized the door to stem the flow of water around their feet and slide into the flatter portion of the hall. It opened up into a larger room, much larger, much wider and taller, with an ornate metal staircase that led up to an open door, flooding with sunlight. Dean sighed in relief. An emergency exit. They wouldn't have to go up the hallway of hell again, if worse came to worse.

The sagging room stank of mud and mildew. Dirt and roots broke apart the ceiling, webbed with cracks that spouted murky water down the buttoned walls. The sludge-like liquid pooled on the floor, ankle-deep at best. Dean treaded—or rather, waded—lightly in the viscous water. There was no telling what sort of beasts in concealed. Jo lifted her voice with reverence. An echo responded to her doubly.

"I've never been inside here," She cooed, "I've only ever looked in the door over there—that's where we were supposed to come in from. Hey, Dean, check this out." She threw a small, disembodied red switch she'd picked up somewhere in their brief explorations, and it bounded across the surface of the water and disappeared down a savage-looking hole. Suddenly, Jo was distracted by something else. She ran over to it eagerly, kicking up gallons of water as she went. "Whoa! What's that?! Dean, come look at this weird table! It's got some sort of funny drawing on it."

In the center of the dark, dank room, a wooden-and-plastic monolith rose up out of the water. Dean followed Jo's footsteps, crossing over to it with a little more care, and pressed his hand to its surface—smooth and even. The top had been colored in many different areas. Big blobs here and there, with the paint chipping off from water damage. Red dots spotted certain locales. Maybe a map? But it wasn't any land that Dean knew. Cautious, he ran his hand over the top of the olden map and pushed deeper into the cave. Like an excited puppy, Jo bounced after.

Another, more ominous-looking hallway stretched before them. A wall with many switches and buttons. The water at their feet tapered into near nonexistence. In the hall, many chairs had been toppled over, pushed onto their sides or backs. Their fabric cushions in puke-green were water-stained, charred, burned through with holes as deep and dark as the cave itself. Dean and Jo clambered over a few to reach the panel of buttons; he tripped and slammed the side of his skull hard against the metal. He startled as the machine screamed to life, whirring. The buttons lit up and beeped ceaselessly. Dean scrambled to turn it off again. So much for the element of surprise.

"Nice goin', Dean," Jo accused. Her voice resounded from the acoustic walls. "And you were worried about me screwing something up. Look at you. I guess you were right, you _can_ do it all by yourself."

"Can it, Jo, or I'll tell Ellen," Dean groaned. She rolled her eyes, but was silent.

In a last-ditch effort to silence the strange, noisy wall, Dean slammed his fist into a small, important-looking panel near the center. It shattered and he pulled back, glass in his knuckles, bleeding.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Dean responded curtly through gritted teeth.

A sign above the panel read in hastily-painted red letters: _BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY_.

Dean shook out his fingers, humming dully with pain, and grimaced. The machine had lulled into a numb murmur; nothing but a pulsating red lamp sounded off.

But his head was pounding—he was getting closer to something, he knew it.

_Who are you? You must be…but you couldn't be, could you?_

Curiosity twisted Dean's stomach into knots. Narrowing his eyes, he pocketed his injured hand and brushed away the remaining debris around the emergency box. Jo craned around his shoulder to watch as he reached inside. Cautiously. Slowly. Not assuming anything good or important.

Their faces fell slightly when he drew out its contents.

A blacked-out mason jar, secured with dried glue around the inner edge of the screw-on lid. Dean brought it closer to him and turned it over. The jar burned the palm of his hand. Determined to receive some sort of reciprocation for the long journey to the cave, Dean held tight to the oven-like jar and—holding it up to his ear—shook it.

Jo grimaced, leaning back against a fallen chair with gusto. "Sounds like sand," She muttered, "How boring."

"That can't be right. Is this the only thing here, really?" Dean grimaced angrily. He'd come for angels, not for a jar full of dirty sand. In a fit of rage, he lifted the jar to shoulder-level and let it drop to the jagged flooring. The jar shattered, sending even more glass flying through the air, and spilled its contents. Not sand. Dean and Jo retired from their standing positions to get a closer look, dropping down to their hands and knees. The grains were small, thin, silky, and grey. From different angles, each individual spot fringed with ember-red. As Dean leaned in even closer, they began to buzz. Experimentally, he reared back. They stopped speaking. A large pressure built in his chest. He thought it to be a feeling at first—foreboding, maybe. He gripped at his heart, pulling his hand back nearly immediately. Jo shot him a questioning look.

"What is this stuff?" She asked aloud, but it went unanswered.

On Dean's hand, an elongated burn mark erected itself, standing out from the multitude of other scars promenading about his skin; even the most prominent, the slice between his palm and wrist, stood no chance when waged against this new contender. It was in the exact shape of Dean's pendant. He gaped at it for a while before hurrying back to the leather necklace and snapping it from his neck for further inspection. The supple fabric strip swung steadily between Dean and Jo's noses. A pendulum of heat and vibrations.

"Well, what have we here?" A new voice boomed down the hall, screaming off the metal surfaces. Dean and Jo whipped around in unison, horror painted across their features. Quickly, Dean stowed the pendant in his right jacket pocket. The leather hissed as they came into contact, spewing smoke like a small dragon. He tried to ignore it. Instead, his attentions went to the wall behind them.

There was no way out.

A man at the end of the hall, wearing a dark black soon complimented by a similarly black tie, hurtled nimbly over the obstacles in his way and stood off to Dean and Jo with a light of superiority in his eyes. Dean pushed Jo back and barred her from the enemy. She squirmed under his arm, protesting.

"Let me go, I can handle myself!"

Dean shook his head, "If you never came home, your mother would kill me."

"I don't care!"

"Just sit still, would ya?"

The man drew closer and closer until he was little more than a step away from colliding with Dean's feet. The two shot violent glares into each other's eyes, contemplating murder or worse.

"Nice to finally meet you, Dean," The man greeted congenially, a hint of venom in his voice, "I've been waiting for you to show up here. My name is Michael, and I'm here for the phoenix. Now, where is the vial, Dean?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean hissed back.

"Oh," Michael tsked, "Don't be like that. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean roared, repeating himself for clarification, "There's no such thing as a phoenix! It's just a myth, man, get over it. I should know. My father spent his entire life looking for the damned thing."

"Did he really?" Jo wondered.

"Shut up!" Dean shot back, "Just let me handle this, okay?"

Michael paid no mind to their bickering; he paced a circle around Dean and Jo, glancing over the ashes spilled on the floor and the shattered glass from the mason jar in vague amusement.

"You broke it," He chuckled, "You broke the container without even realizing it."

"Listen, pal," Dean insisted, taking a few steps back now that Michael had the brunt of the dead-end at his back, "The way I see things, there is only one of you, and two of us. So we can fight our way out, or we can settle things peaceably."

Michael smiled slyly, casting Dean a sarcastic glare from the corner of his eye. The ashes fizzled around his feet, hopping and jumping.

"Oh, Dean," He complimented lightly, "That's just like you. Seeing only one side of things when there are obviously so many more. I don't want your lives, Dean. I only want the ashes around your neck and a drop of your blood. Then, you're free to go. No charges. You can spend the rest of your life in a piteous squalor."

"What are you going to do with the ashes?" Dean narrowed his eyes. He didn't trust this Michael—his suit was too shiny, his hands were too clean.

Rolling his shoulders back in a failed attempt to look less threatening, Michael gestured widely with his hands and shrugged. "I don't know," He responded at last, "But this sort of thing is better left to professionals than the likes of you. You'd squander the power, Dean. You know you would. So, hand them over."

Dean double-checked, "We get away? Both of us live?"

"Of course," Michael responded, appalled that anyone might think otherwise, "Dean, your life is worthless to someone like me. Now, the ashes."

Digging in his pocket, Dean carefully removed the lava-hot vial from his person and tossed it over to Michael, aiming to miss. Michael grinned as he stepped back to catch it. The precision was devastating and painful to watch. Dean grimaced. He inched Jo back a few steps and sent her scurrying back out of the cave, pushing his pistol into her hands. She was gone in an instant, little rocks and tiles tittering down the hall behind her hurried feet. Michael watched her with detached disinterest gleaming against the dark surface of his pupils. Shadows moved in strange ways behind him—serpentine, taking the shape of tattered wings, at times other things, not able to be named. He examined the glass vial without flinching at its heat. Then, pointedly, he snapped the cork open and let its contents fly into the ashes already spread upon the floor.

Michael held out his hand.

"Blood," He requested promptly, "Only yours will do, Dean Winchester."

"Why's that?"

"So many questions!" Michael drawled, "Just give me what I asked for, or I'll make sure your little female friend won't take two steps outside of this bunker with her head still attached."

Dean blew out an aggravated sigh and dug inside his jacket for a knife. Luckily, he kept one on him at all times. The blade curved toward the sagging ceiling hungrily, cruelly. He let it suck in its fair share of spotlight before pressing it to his palm. A sticky tide of auburn plunged from his broken skin, drippling onto the sodden floor at his feet. Dean lathered the blade in the liquid. He tossed it at Michael, who caught it with a deadly glint in his smile.

"Don't aim for the heart, Dean," He advised, "That hurts."

"That so?"

"Your sarcasm is painful," Michael muttered, "Either way, I have no need for you now. Do you know what people like me do to little brats like you, Dean Winchester?"

"Spankings?"

Michael's features contorted into a rough grimace. "Oh, I will have fun with this."

The 'angel' had taken no less than three steps with the blade. The blood and ashes on the floor emitted a furious light. Michael paused to stare at it; both he and Dean bore confused and bewildered expressions.

"Oh, what now?!" Michael exclaimed frustratedly.

He dropped the knife.

In an instant, the droning glow erupted into a full-blown, forceful explosion of void and darkness. The conflagration burned fiery-hot, and blew Dean against the closest wall. He covered his eyes with his arm, hoping the leather would protect him from the worst of the heat. He waited for a death that never came.

The darkness ebbed and the heat focused in on a single, humanoid shape.

A voice. A familiar voice.

"Don't touch him, Michael," the voice commanded grimly.

And Michael responded, "Try and make me, Phoenix. You belong to me, now."

"No," the voice did not falter. It was not in dismay. This voice demanded what it knew. It was not that he was disappointed in being owned by a new master; he simply had no new master to speak of.

"That's impossible. I followed the legends to a T."

Dean lowered his arm.

"Stay where you are!"

He felt the blast before he saw or heard it. The force pinned him viciously to the wall, burning and brimming and eating at his very existence, yet it touched him only in inches. Friendly inches. Somehow, Dean had the feeling that this fire was not going to hurt him. He opened his eyes and beheld the world for what seemed to be the first time.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the high-pitched scream of the explosion and the painful blue light it gave off.


End file.
